


When You Say Nothing At All

by Spencer5460



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7254037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“ ‘Thanks, Artie’? Is that all you can say to me? I've just come back from the grave, risen like Lazarus, and that's what you say? ‘Thanks, Artie?’ ” </p><p>“Thanks, Artie,” he repeated. What more <i>could</i> he say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Say Nothing At All

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "Night of the Pistoleros." This story contains the merest hint of slash, but it can be overlooked. Thanks to Ursulasrealm for the encouragement.

**When You Say Nothing at All**

When Artie died, the world faded to black, with only a pinhole remaining to see through, the way he had once showed Jim to view the solar eclipse. Everything Jim believed – everything he fought for – everything he _lived_ for – disappeared in the blink of an eye, except for that one pinpoint of light. Artie.

James West desperately wanted to believe the gun shot and Artie’s tumble down the stairs was just a trick, something Dr. Loveless might dream up to drive him mad. The twisted little doctor had tried it once before. Put something in Jim’s water that made him think he’d killed his best friend. But even that event had seemed more like a dream than anything else, until reality brought Artie back. 

Jim longed to wake from this living nightmare to find Artie with him once more, waving a roast duck in front of his nose or serenading him with Beethoven’s Sonata No. 5 on his violin. This time Jim knew it was different. The man he’d held in his arms was well and truly dead. He doubted the blood that seeped through his fingers would ever wash clean.

The hardened secret service agent went through the motions of what followed like a zombie, barely speaking, doing only what was necessary. Making burial arrangements. Notifying Washington and the Gordon family. 

Jim had never been much a talker. Action had always been more his style. But then he met Artemus Gordon. The one person who was more interested in what he _thought_ than what he could do. Someone who wasn’t mesmerized by his physique, which only made Artie all the more intriguing. A challenge finally worthy of him. And Jim had never been able to resist a challenge.

Not that he thought Artie enjoyed the company of beautiful women any less than he did. It was hard to resist the females who practically threw themselves at the two agents, promising . . . anything. Nights on the town between assignments were frequent, bed partners common, but double dates were always the best. The women were just charming diversions from the _something_ that smoldered between Artie and Jim that they never discussed. An unspoken desire for something forbidden. A powerful magnetic pull they could never break free of. 

Now Artie had taken his secret to the grave. Dead men tell no tales.

“What will you do now, Jim?” The man he knew as Colonel Roper had asked.

“Go to Mexico. Find the bastard who shot Artie.” _Kill him with my bare hands if necessary._ Crossing the border without sanction and possibly worsening an already tenuous situation might have mattered to him before. Now, only one thing did.

ooOoo

Once Special Agent James West set out on a mission, nothing could deter him. He wouldn’t rest until the murdering scum was dead. And even then, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t take him long to find Sanchos in a dusty, Mexican border town. 

"Take a good look at the man who's going to kill you." Jim stared him down like Grim Reaper himself. Their struggle was brief. Jim was prepared to end him by any means necessary, but fate intervened. Sanchos fell on his own knife, the sharp blade plunging deep.

Jim knelt beside him as he gasped his last breaths. “You’re a dying man,” Jim spoke with no sympathy. “You’ve killed a lot of men in your time. Save your soul. Tell me why did you kill Artemus Gordon?”

Hypnotized by the determination in Jim’s steely eyes and with death only seconds away, the Pistolero gave in. “Your friend had to die because of his importance. His death would bring the American Colonel to Mexico,” the man spat out along with his own blood. He revealed Artie’s role in a complex plot to assassinate Colonel Roper and bring war to the territory. 

Despite what Jim had said, he hoped the murderer’s confession wasn’t enough to save him from Hades’ fire. 

He thought of the irony. More than anything, Artie loved peace. He worked his whole life for it. He fought and ultimately died for it. The thought that Artie’s death would merely be a stepping stone to war stabbed Jim as sharply as the mercenary’s knife. Maybe he had one more job to do after all. Oblivion would have to wait another day.

ooOoo

With a tiny lock pick of Artie’s design and minimum effort, James West broke out of the jail cell Colonel Roper had tossed him in to keep him from Fort Apache. Jim realized too late that their old friend Charlie Tobin, the one who had brought them to this corner of Hell in the first place, may have been on to something all along. All was not as it appeared to be at Fort Challenge. Jim’s scruffy cell mate had revealed to him who the real leader of the Pistoleros band was. Not a knife-toting Mexican gangster but a wealthy hacienda owner named Armando, who would profit from a war between the two neighboring countries. 

Jim headed straight for the Armando’s hacienda alone, arriving at dawn. He was used to taking chances; living dangerously had always made him feel alive. But now he felt numb, as if he were only going through the motions. _Another sunrise without Artie._

When Jim revealed himself to the group that had gathered to toast their success, Armando’s pronouncement that war was imminent did little to restore his deadened emotions. But he was determined that Artie not have died in vain.

With little regard to himself, Jim took on Armando’s small army of thugs single-handedly, flying over the fine furniture as if he had wings and taking down three at once. But even for the invincible James West, the superhuman effort wasn’t enough. In one swift move, Armando grabbed a rifle and had him in his sights. Jim was almost glad.

Then a shot rang out from the stairway above, killing the would-be warlord instantly. Jim looked up to where the bullet had come from. And saw . . . 

Artie. His avenging angel. His saving grace. 

Was he real or a mirage conjured up to sooth a mind sliding off the edge? The light in his eyes told him differently. The soft smile on his savior’s face. The man was real enough.

“Thanks, Artie.” Jim spoke quietly. Reverently. As if in a house of prayer. James West’s had been answered.

“ ‘Thanks, Artie’? Is that all you can say to me? I've just come back from the grave, risen like Lazarus, and that's what you say? ‘Thanks, Artie?’ ” Artemus Gordon’s smooth baritone sang out sweetly, soothing the savage beast. Restoring his partner’s humanity one word at a time. 

As the point of light began to widen and encompass the whole room, Jim continued to stare, motionless. 

“Thanks, Artie,” he repeated. What more _could_ he say? 

Not just ‘thanks for saving my life,’ but ‘thanks for being alive.’ Thanks for being you. Thanks for being at my side all these years, for sharing the dangers as well as the delights. For bringing me back to myself. For loving me like no other. 

Jim hoped Artie understood. When his friend’s lips lifted in a tiny smile, he knew he did. 

Jim had never been a talker. But with Artie, words were unnecessary. Those chiseled features, those emerald eyes, said all he needed. As many dialects as Artemus Gordon could speak, James West was his most fluent. 

“It's a pleasure.” Artie affirmed. He needn’t say more.

**FIN**


End file.
